Stuffed

After a short break, keyboard, here I come again. Today. We heard the riots still going on in the Islamic world, so we decided to go out of town again. The decision was reinforced by the weather forecast, which prophecied a day or two of sun followed by reign of rain. Nothing violent was happening in Damascus today, but there was still chanting going on on the streets in the morning, so peace and quiet there is not. Still, we're pretty sure Damascus is safe again. We went out yesterday evening, grabbed some food, and had very nice chats with several fine Moslem people. Out there in Palmyra, everyone was heard of Croatia, and we were nice. Dobro. Everybody loves us. Here in Damascus, most people have never heard of Croatia, most believe it's somewhere in Russia, until we explain about Yugoslavia. Everybody loves us.

Digression aside. Today we went to follow Barada to its source. My uncle told a funny story about the first time he went to find the spring, how they missed it twice, then finally found it after being told the directions by a local, twice: they had to go through a gate. The gate in question is a gate in a long wall in a region where everything is military property — a gate indistinguishable from the previous one or the next one, both of which lead to Syrian barracks, a turn one emphatically does not wish to make. No-one heeds the traffic police here, but when you see someone wave at you with a semiautomatic instead of a baton, you bloody well obey.

Barada's birthplace is a smallish lake high up in the mountains, an excursion spot for the Damascene folk. They have horses there, and you can ride — on the asphalt road around the lake — but unfortunately they also have horse-hustlers, which were even more annoying than the postcard-pusher, so we escaped in a hurry. They are the folk who don't understand no. Nor non, nor ﻻ. In my opinion, everyone should understand a refusal in at least one language to qualify for life in civilisation.

On our way we saw some wonderful unnatural cave-shaped formations on some cliffs, and we decided to climb there and take a peek. Suffice it to say, mountaineering is not my sport, but the holes were nice. I have no idea if they were living quarters or burial chambers, or sarcophagi also served as beds, but they were impressive, if only for the willpower it must have taken to refuse the aid of powertools. Jokes notwithstanding, I do not regret taking the time to climb there, but my body might. Tomorrow might prove to be a very lactic morning.

After the horse incident, we went to lunch in a restaurant. The opulence of the table is something I will not be able to describe. We did not order anything extravagant, but there were no less than four or five different salads and four or five different pâtés, four different kinds of meat, three different sorts of fruit, five different flavours of jams, and cookies and pancakebread to go with all that. Pancakebread is my word, I have no idea what it's called, but it's eaten in lieu of bread, tastes like bread, looks like a big crêpe, and my imagination's tired. So, pancakebread. And I must have forgotten something, because we took up two tables for the four of us, only with the food brought to us. And there were four or five different waiters flitting about serving us, and they were all very nice. Kudos to Syrian restaurants! The food was good, on the average; some I did not like, some I enjoyed way too much. Most of it was strange, but I'm a stranger in a strange land, so it's pretty much what I expected.

After having thoroughly stuffed ourselves, we went to a nearby hill, the top of which supports an Orthodox Christian monastery. I forget the name; the place was unforgettable. I can't say much more than that; I hope some pictures come back with us and turn out well so I can show you.

Then we packed up and went home. I dozed all the way. The blog was waiting when we came to the apartment.